The Easy Way Out
by keeponwritin
Summary: Reminiscing is just an interruption of the present, and one that brings you nothing but longing. [oneshot.]


A/N: Yeah. It's Lizzie McGuire. I have no shame. I was watching it last night and I realized I wanted to write a certain pairing and then it just didn't work out and I got this instead. I give my love to Radiohead, for the much-needed inspiration.

My only warning is not one of any sort of theme that goes on; this story is practically G-rated. It's just... if you don't have any open mind about the way a story is told, I wouldn't read this. That didn't make any sense. I don't care. Just don't write mean reviews, because I only wish the world happiness and joy.

Guilt was not a familiar feeling. Don't get me wrong, I feel awful when I turn down my mom when she suggests Family Movie Night, or when I tell Lizzie she looks stellar when she actually looks a little under the weather. But this was different. A lot different. This time, the guilt was a neon orange sign outside my window, the giant arrow pointing straight at me. It seemed like everyone knew at this point. The rumor mill, the heavyhearted smile I'd grown accustomed to wearing lately, and the way I acted around them all seemed to add up just perfectly. But I guess everything's obvious once you know it. Or once you think you know it.

I slung the strap of my blue crochet bag over my shoulder, staring into the abyss of my dark gray locker. It had gotten cluttered recently, with bead bracelets I'd made myself, little notebooks, empty lip gloss tubes. I reached in and grabbed a good lot of it, shoving it into my bag. I probably could've carried my science textbook if I'd brought a bigger bag, and remembered it was in there. I'd stopped going to my locker in at least March, anyway. I glanced at the photo of me, Lizzie and Gordo from the day we went mini-golfing, stuck to the locker by a white and yellow daisy magnet. I used to have a mirror there, back when I smiled.

I shut my locker quietly. The hallways were lined with kids emptying their lockers, then getting distracted and goofing around instead of emptying their lockers. Girls giggled over little notes they'd found from September, guys cracked up at three-month-old lunches being tossed in the trash. I remember in sixth grade, when we were trying to figure out whose locker was the cleanest out of the three of us, and Lizzie and I thought ours were pretty good, but then Gordo beat us by a mile. He must've taken Lysol to that thing.

I kept my relics at the back of my closet. In a box right next to the stuffed animals, the ceramic vase Lizzie made me, every last jagged fragment. I preferred them there. Reminiscing is just an interruption of the present, and one that brings you nothing but longing. Everyone always looks back on these years as the best years of their lives, no matter how bad these years suck for them. I'll be one of those people, too. I'll look back at this very date, and probably think I was out having the time of my life, forgetting about how I hugged my textbook to my chest and walked towards the girls' room with downward-glancing eyes. I pushed the heavy door open, walking into the nauseously cotton-candy-pink room. I laid my book down on the counter and pushed on the soap dispenser, hot pink soap falling into my hands. A ferocious little giggle erupted from the girls in the corner I hadn't bothered to glance at. The majority of them pranced out, but I caught blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. I fell deathly silent, not that I hadn't already practically been. She washed her hands, too, without soap, merely shaking her hands around after removing them from under the faucet. I thought I was almost home free as she walked behind me towards the door. But she made a U-turn, straight back to face me. I felt her flippy purple skirt brush against my jean-clad legs.

See you on Saturday, Sanchez, she said. I only looked at her as she walked away and out the door, her blonde curls bouncing, the world never knowing what I did. I grabbed a paper towel or two and dried my hands before exiting, turning left towards the bus stop across the parking lot.

Outside, the sun immediately dug its way under my skin. Within five minutes of standing atop the gravel, I could feel beads of sweat dripping down the back of my neck. My bus would come late; I should've known. I went back and sat at the empty bench, as giddy middle schoolers filed out into their cars, picked up by their loving, supportive parents. All of the kids were gone about fifteen minutes later, and I was still there. A car pulled up in front of the bench then, and its window rolled down.

Gordo's voice said. I looked up, bleakly smiling, finally seeing a somewhat friendly face. Gordo had had his license for a few months now, and the car for even longer. Should've known he'd get such a fancy black car like that; he always was a rich snob at heart.

I said tiredly.

Do you... have a ride? he asked, cocking his eyebrow. I saw through it immediately. He was suspicious. I trusted Gordo. I always thought if a situation like this one ever presented itself, Gordo would understand. We had something. We still had something. He ignored it, though. I rubbed my Vaseline-covered lips together. I stared at him. If looks could kill.

I spit out, meaning to sound angry, but coming off as whiny. And pitiful.

he replied defensively, backing off, ever the non-instigator. I saw him shifting back into drive, clicking the radio back on. He sighed and looked out his windshield, ahead towards the driveway out. He glanced back at me. For the first time in a while, his eyes bored into me. Gordo had always lacked resolve. We'd never taken him serious. When he stared at me like that, my heart sunk to my feet. Lizzie said she wants to talk to you. He rolled up his window and drove away.

Lizzie always wanted to talk to me. She always wanted to make eye contact and talk logically. She always wanted to talk about life and the seasons and the smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies, but I didn't know these things. I could never be her best friend, as hard as I'd tried to be there. She always wanted me to be there. I was always there, but that didn't mean I was listening. I couldn't talk, I couldn't listen. And I sure as hell couldn't feel. I wasn't much of anything anymore.

Without the car's engine muttering or Gordo's forlorn sighs as the soundtrack to this day, I was left with the wind whistling in my ear. I laced up my black Converse. I examined the dirt under my pink painted fingernails. I checked how the gash across my leg was healing from a couple Saturdays ago. I glanced at my blue Baby-G watch. I realized my bus wasn't coming.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and picked myself up, heading home again.


End file.
